


Something I Don't Know

by Lies_Unfurl



Series: Under the Skin [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Castiel, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel lives, the Winchesters deal with the immediate fallout, and Sam begins to remember more from his time in Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something I Don't Know

Once when Sam was eleven and Dean was fifteen, their father was injured on a hunt. A desperate, dying witch had thrown a knife at him and pierced right beneath his shoulder. It wasn’t bad — not by Winchester standards — but there was a hell of a lot of bleeding.

Dean had driven them back to the motel, his face pale with worry. Sam recalls how he could see his hands digging into the wheel, how his legs were twitching like he just wanted to slam down on the gas and get them back to their rooms, to where they could make everything right again. But from the back, John had ordered him to go slow, go steady. Don’t risk getting pulled over. Don’t risk an accident.

Now, as Sam curls in front of the backseat, where Cas is stretched out and bleeding and whimpering things that neither of them can understand, he wonders if Dean remembers that night. Because if he does, he sure as all hell doesn’t care about John Winchester’s message anymore. The moment that Sam had laid out Cas, he was off, speeding down a dark road that is thankfully free of other cars at this hour. Sam is certain that they’re going over sixty, and they just set off maybe a minute ago.

He doesn’t say anything to Dean, though, because they needed to be at the hospital ten minutes ago. He’s holding the folded-up sweatshirt to the bullet wound in Castiel’s spleen, but there’s only so much he can do. Hell, he doesn’t know if this means anything at all, because fuck, there’s so much blood and this is just like--

\--razorblade wings slicing into his flesh as the archangel comes at him again, telling him what a sinner he is, how he’ll pay in Heaven as he’s paying in Hell and there will never be an escape for him—

\--the talons of a golden eagle that maybe is also an angel, ripping his heart out—

\--hooks slicing into his back and making him hang down like a painting of human flesh and pain—

Hell.

“That was mostly Michael, you know,” a soft voice says from next to him. He whips around, his eyes temporarily leaving Cas’ bloody abdomen. Lucifer sits across from him, leaning against the other door. “I was never as interested in that.”

He swallows hard and goes back to trying to staunch the bleeding, but it isn’t working, and whatever Castiel is saying in interspersed with gasps and moans of pain, and Sam doesn’t want to lose him, not again.

“That’s Enochian he’s talking,” Lucifer tells him. He leans close, laying a hand over where Sam sliced into Cas, freeing the dying Leviathan. “The true Divine Language, not the watered-down version you folks got from a mad prophet.”

Sam presses down over the wound. He needs something new, he thinks, and he’ll take the shirt off his back if he has to. “Dean. He’s bleeding really quickly. Uh—”

They speed up. Sam wasn’t certain that was possible.

“If you need something else for the blood, look under the seat. Should be something there.” Dean’s voice is tight, indecipherable.

Keeping one hand on Cas, he reaches the other under the seat, and feels fabric in his hand almost instantly. He pulls it out.

Castiel’s trench coat. Of course. Sam tosses aside the bloodied sweatshirt and instead carefully spreads the coat across Castiel’s abdomen. It starts to soak up the blood from the cuts almost immediately, but he focuses his attention on the shot. Of all the serious things right now, that’s number one.

“Dean’s more sentimental than he lets on.” Lucifer strokes Castiel’s face, and Sam bites off the urge to tell him to stop, to fuck off and let Castiel suffer on his own, because hasn’t he been through enough already? But then Cas flinches violently, like he can feel Lucifer’s icy hands on him, and that’s. That’s not right, because Lucifer isn’t real.

He wastes precious seconds digging his nails into his palm, reminding himself of what actually exists, but when Lucifer doesn’t go away immediately, he gives up. He has more important things to be doing than tethering himself to reality.

Lucifer drops back down to the floor, sitting near enough for Sam to feel the cold that radiates from him. Even though it’s a November night in Idaho, he’s still below the temperature of the air. “Want to know what he’s saying?”

“No,” Sam replies instantly. He regrets it as soon as it’s out of his mouth, because he can’t acknowledge Lucifer — can’t pretend he’s real, because that’s not healthy, not okay — but Dean doesn’t say anything. Probably he doesn’t hear, too focused on driving.

“It’s a prayer. The first one ever sung by angelic hymns, praising God and all his glory. That prayer, Sam? It’s the promise that all angels make. They will never leave God, never walk away from his light — and lo, never will they be alone, for the Lord God of the Highest is with them. As long as they keep it, of course.”

He leans back against the backseat and lies one hand on Castiel’s leg. “It’s lonely, you know. When you fall? I didn’t have it that bad, with my legions behind me. Enough of my siblings there to imitate the constant chorus that you hear in the upper office. But going at it alone must be terrifying. I’m impressed that your little friend could do it.”

“He wasn’t alone,” Sam says, not looking at him, because he hates that he’s responding at all. It’s just that Lucifer’s words — they hurt, strike something painful inside of him, something which maybe accounts for why he cares so much about seeing to it that Cas makes it through the night. Something about how he’s known loneliness, been abandoned, fucked up—

But none of that is important now, because he can feel moisture seeping through the tan cloth beneath him, and he doesn’t think that they have much longer. “Cas, you always had us, always. It’s going to be fine now.”

“Oh, come on. You’re a bright guy, Sam. Wouldn’t have gone for you otherwise.” Lucifer’s hands trail up Castiel’s leg, resting on his hip. Cas jerks, letting out a low cry, and Sam grits his teeth and carefully, gently, pushes him back down. “It’s okay. We’re almost there—” although he actually has no idea how close they are, but he can hear cars beeping at them, and he thinks that Dean just ran a red light, so apparently they’re out of the woods. Only in the literal sense, unfortunately.

“You know that you two fools couldn’t take the place of all of Cassy’s brothers. There were millions of us once, Sam, all the light, all the basking that you could possibly imagine. Absolutely terrible.” Lucifer shakes his head, like he could possibly be less clear about his hatred for Heaven. “Number in the thousands now, I suspect. With all that killing Castiel did when he was king of all.”

Castiel cries out, some Enochian phrase. Sam hears Dean take a sharp inhalation, but he doesn’t comment.

After that, Cas quiets down, just whispering the same few words over and over again. Sam tries to hear, to use what limited knowledge of Enochian that he has to understand, but it’s impossible. He can only just press down on the wound and pray for someone somewhere to just give Cas this one comfort. Just ease whatever isolation he feels, he begs; because it’s pretty obvious that this body lying in front of him belongs to a human, not an angel, and Sam figures that whatever connection he had to Heaven, it’s completely gone now. And for some reason, that thought brings a lump to his throat maybe quicker than anything else that’s happened tonight has.

It’s Lucifer who answers his prayers. He crouches and reaches over, taking Castiel’s chin in his hand. Sam freezes, almost lets up on the pressure he’s been keeping on the wound as he watches the devil lean close and say something. Lucifer’s eyes never stray from Castiel’s.

Dean glances back there. Sam is stunned that he can do that and still keep them on the road. “You say something?”

“No,” Sam answers automatically. Yes, probably, because Cas is relaxing, although he hasn’t yet been given the mercy of unconsciousness.

“What did I say to him?” Lucifer asks, smugly voicing Sam’s thought question. “He was begging for the grace of God, or of his brothers. For forgiveness, so that he wouldn’t be alone in his pain. It was a traditional cry when angels were close to being slain, back in the good old days. And I just told him that he isn’t alone. To recognize me, his brother.”

“You’re not real,” Sam hisses. This time he’s certain that Dean hears, because a glance to his seat shows how he’s tensed. But he doesn’t comment, not yet.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s the words that do, Sam.” Lucifer’s hand holds on to Castiel’s chin a moment longer before he drops it. “And I think that you got more from your little vacation down under than you remember.”

Before Sam can ask him what that means, ask him what he knows, or why Lucifer would care to give Castiel a moment’s worth of comfort anyway, the car stops without warning. Sam slams into the seat behind him, narrowly managing to prevent Cas from falling.

“We’re here,” Dean announces, halfway out the door already. “Come on, Sam!”

Sam opens the door and ducks out of it before he reaches in to grab Cas, whose eyes have closed now, although the rapid rise and fall of his chest prevent Sam from fearing the worst. Lucifer is still sitting in the shadows of the Impala, and as Sam lifts Cas out, he smiles, says, “Till next time, Sammy,” and then is gone, to wherever hallucinations go to lie dormant.

*

The emergency room is all bright lights and noise, sitting bodies with broken noses or hacking coughs, and harried orderlies and nurses.

Still, when Sam and Dean burst in, Castiel’s body lying in Sam’s arms, a trench coat with bloody stains sticking to his abdomen, it feels like everyone stops and stares at them. For a moment, there’s that sound of silence amid chaos, the sort that happened in the nanosecond after Dean had shot the Colt, but before the bullet had met its mark.

Then, the world starts to turn again, and there are people shouting, someone taking Cas from Sam, someone else pulling he and Dean aside for information about what the hell happened. And they take Cas somewhere else, and Sam’s arms feel light without his weight, and his hands are sort from the pressure he exerted pushing down on the wound, and his palms are scratched from rubbing against the trench coat.

*

“I should call Bobby,” Dean says after it’s all done, after they’ve shown their FBI badges and bullshitted their way through the insurance information, spun a lie about finding Castiel in the basement of some twisted fucker who shot him at as last-ditch attempt to kill him before being killed. He doesn’t know if the hospital officials believed it, but they had the badges and the charisma to back it up for now, at least.

Castiel is being operated on. Or getting a blood transfusion, or both at the same time. Sam isn’t certain. It’s all started to blur together in his head, and he really wants to sleep. He won’t, though. Not even if it takes hours for them to get a prognosis on Cas. Usually he’s the reasonable one, the one who tells Dean that it’s no use, to go get some sleep while they wait. But they owe Cas this. Everyone deserves to know that there’s someone who would wait up all night at a hospital for them, to see if they would live or die.

“Cas won’t get that sentiment, you know,” Lucifer whispers. He’s sitting in the chair next to Sam, the side that Dean isn’t on. “Why would he care about what goes on when he’s drugged under?”

Sam rubs a tired hand over his face. They let him clean up, wash the blood from his hands, but he still feels dirty. Marked by the angel blood, just like he was branded by demons. “You should,” he tells Dean. “Doesn’t matter what time it is. Bobby will want to know what’s up.”

Dean nods and stands up. He stretches halfheartedly, like he want to feel it, but he just doesn’t have the energy. “Okay. I’m going to go outside and see if I can get some reception. Will you…” he pauses, like he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to put this.

“I’ll be fine,” Sam promises. “Go.”

Dean nods and goes, leaving Sam in a hospital waiting room with scratched and stained white walls and a devil in the chair next to him. Sam leans back, and raises his arms over his head, extends his legs forward and staring at the buzzing florescent light above until his eyes start to water. They haven’t been here long, he reminds himself. It’s normal for it to take this long when someone has been hurt so seriously.

“You don’t owe Cas anything,” Lucifer says casually, like they’re talking about what’s opening in theaters this week. “What has he ever done for you? Besides bringing me back, of course.”

Sam drops his arms and stares at his hands. He thinks that he sees a trace of red left under his fingernails.

“You know that he screwed you royally, Sam. Worked with a demon, walked away from Dean without looking back…hurt him pretty badly, between that and what he did to you. Wouldn’t have been worse if he beat his face in — not that he’s never done that before.”

Sam doesn’t react to the words. He refuses to. Because it’s — Lucifer is — just a hallucination. His mind’s way of dealing with what he went through.

“But I wonder what it says about you two that Dean still hasn’t forgiven Cas — and oh, come on, you know that it’s true — but you rush off to be his salvation. You’ll forgive him for hurting Dean, but Dean won’t forgive him for hurting you. Doesn’t seem like a very even relationship to me.”

“That’s not the way it is,” Sam hisses. A nurse glances up at him, and he quickly looks down, digging around in his pocket for him cell phone. The reasonable part of him tells him not to do this, not to indulge his unstable side, but he can’t help it. Pretending to be speaking into it, he whispers, “We’ve all messed up before, and I know that he screwed up. And I brought about the apocalypse. And if Dean’s able to give me a clean slate for that, he can forgive Cas for what he did with Purgatory.”

“Some would argue that bring about the apocalypse was a good thing, Sam. I know I would.” Lucifer smiles. “But even so, can you forgive him for hurting Dean? Like you know that he did?”

“He was alone,” Sam says flatly. “Or he thought that he was, at least, so he took the best path that he had available. So did I.”

“And look where that got you.” Lucifer smirks and reaches over, cups Sam’s chin in his hand. Sam stills instantly, feeling cold spread out from (where he’s hallucinating) Lucifer’s touch. He can’t think right; his thoughts have slowed to the speed of water trying to flow over slush. “Remember?”

Sam’s cell phone drops from his numb fingers and crashes to the floor. The sound makes him jump, and then Lucifer is gone, and Dean is sitting next to him, looking furious and scared.

He swallows and tries to calm his heart, which is pounding hard as if to warm his blood and thaw the ice in his chest. “What did Bobby say?” he asks, leaning down to pick up his cell phone. The back has snapped off, but it pops back on easily. Which is good, since they really can’t afford new ones at the moment.

Dean ignores the question. “Sam. What the fuck? I thought we had a deal, that if any of that cuckoo’s nest shit started happening you would tell me. What did he say?”

“Nothing, Dean. Relax.” Sam slips the phone back into his pockets and tries to unobtrusively rub his hands together and start up his blood circulation. By the way that Dean’s jaw tightens at the movement, he’s failed.

“Nothing? Don’t pull that again, Sam. Just… don’t.” Dean shakes his head. He looks tired and unshaven, as Sam suspects that he does himself. “We can’t afford to have you suddenly drop out of commission. Not with the crap that’s just gone down, cause God only knows where we’re going to go from here. I need you to be here, Sam. As in, mentally, not just physically. And if you don’t think you can be, just tell me. Okay? I… I won’t be pissed at you, as long as you’re honest. I know that having Cas back — for a little while, anyway — probably screwed you up, brought back some bad memories. And that’s fine.”

“It’s not Cas’ fault,” Sam says, suddenly tired. “It’s just the stress, okay? Of what we’ve just had to do. It…it makes it a bit harder to deal, but the important thing is that I’m still dealing. Okay?”

Dean’s expression tells him that no, it really isn’t; everything is not really all right. But it’s going to have to be enough. “So. What did Bobby say?”

“He’s coming up here. Should arrive around noon tomorrow. Or today. Whatever it is. That’s all.” Dean shrugs. “It’s not like I had that much to tell him.”

Sam is about to nod in agreement when a tired-looking doctor walks in. “Agents Smith and Jones?”

They stand up in synch and flash their badges, because the doctor doesn’t look like he believes that the two ratty-looking men in front of him could possibly be government workers.

“Did he survive?” Dean asks, only a hint of desperation to his voice. That’s really the thing that the two of them have both been waiting on. Sam knows that the details are important, but right now it’s what they really care about.

The doctor’s face breaks into a tired sort of smile. “Yes. He’s not out of the woods yet, of course, but I have to say that he’s extraordinarily lucky to have gotten this far. A more religious man than I would probably say that he has angels watching over him.”

They manage not to show what they think of that, although Dean does give a sharp cough.

*

The doctor goes on to explain the details, most of which they already knew. The bullet ruptured Castiel’s spleen, forcing them to remove it — “It’s a common enough procedure,” the doctor assures them; “He should be able to live a life of similar caliber of what he was already facing” — and it narrowly avoided hitting anything else. “Again, one fine stroke of luck right there. Had the guy been a better shot, or just moved his hand an inch down, he probably would’ve pierced the stomach, and we might be having a very different conversation.”

It’s the blood loss that was the worst part. The lacerations on the stomach, combined with the bullet wound, pushed him very close to the brink of death, and it was only through several transfusions that they were able to keep him here. Sam can still feel it on his hands, all sticky and warm, and he shudders to think about it.

“We’ll need to watch him for at least three weeks before we can release him. As I said, he’s still in serious condition. But I would take some comfort in the fact that he’s made it this far,” the doctor says, finishing up his report. “Any questions?”

“When will he wake up?” Sam asks.

The doctor hesitates. “The anesthesia that he’s on will wear out in the next few hours. But he’s not going to be fit for questioning then, not with the amount of pain that he’ll be in. And he’s still in the ICU. I’d recommend that you gentlemen give him at least a week before you try to interrogate him — although of course, agents, it’s not my place to determine what you do or don’t do,” he says quickly, like he’s worried that the government will go after him if he’s too assertive.

“What if we don’t want to see him to question him?” Sam pushes. “When would we be able to just make sure that he’s all right?”

“Oh.” The doctor frowns. “Well, hopefully he’ll be out of the ICU in a day or two. Of course, it’s hard to say.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “Would it be possible for the hospital to contact us when his condition is downgraded?”

The doctor confirms that it would be. When he’s gone Sam turns to Dean and sighs. “Well. We probably can’t wait here for two days.

“Nope,” agrees Dean. “They’ll call us if anything changes, Sam. We should head back and rest.”

Sam doesn’t protest that, because as much as he wants to be there as soon as Cas can have visitors, just let him know that he isn’t alone, he knows that it’s unreasonable. So they walk outside, where the sun has just risen, and get into the Impala for a drive that seems to take forever, like the car is spent from the wild ride they took here.

The car smells like blood, and Sam deliberately doesn’t turn to the backseat to see what’s left behind.

* 

Bobby arrives just as Sam is waking up from a restless sleep. They fill him in on what’s happened, on what Castiel’s condition is, and he expresses his sympathies. And then, they settle down to wait.

*

It takes almost four days for the call to come, which it does at precisely 2:23 in the afternoon. They tell them that he’s awake, alert, and that he’s open to seeing visitors, and that’s all it takes for them to be climbing into the Impala and driving there at a speed comparable to the one that they first drove to the hospital with. Dean spent the last days cleaning the seats vigorously and repeatedly. Sam and Bobby made offers to help several times, but they were never accepted.

Half an hour after the call came, the three of them are standing in the hall. Castiel is only a few feet away by now, and Sam knows that they’re all waiting to see him — maybe Bobby is more hesitant, having not been there to see what exactly he went through; maybe Dean is going at this with more trepidation than any of them, because Sam knows that Lucifer was right, he is still angry at Castiel — but they’re all there. That’s the important part.

The doctor that’s there today tells them the same stuff that they heard on the phone — that Cas is alert, that he’s answering questions like he understands them and isn’t in a complete high because of the pain meds — but she does add that they caution against directly talking about the trauma that he went through right now.

“You have to understand, he’s still processing exactly what he went through. It’s perfectly normal — expected, even — that he’ll be confused, angry, or frightened. And although I’m sure that you gentlemen have his best interests at heart, I’m going to have to tell you that if your questioning upsets him in any way, we will have to remove you.”

“We understand.” Dean flashes her a smile, which she seems to be unmoved by. “Nothing too strenuous today.”

She frowns. “Today or tomorrow. Or for weeks, depending on the rate at which he recovers.”

“Right. Exactly what I meant.” Dean nods vigorously, and although Sam is pretty certain that she isn’t won over by his display, she nevertheless allows them to go on inside.

It’s a relief just to see that Cas really is still alive, that the staff of the hospital wasn’t just lying or playing some cruel, twisted game (as Sam had occasionally thought about during some of his less lucid moments). But it’s also a shock, seeing him lying in the stark white sheets of a hospital bed, looking nothing like the warrior that Sam still pictures him as. His skin is wan, the circles still prominent against his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, not like he’s been out for four days.

He’s slumped down when they come in, but he scrambles up quickly into a sitting position. That one act seems to exert him far more than it should, and he lets out a long, weary breath as he leans back against the headboard. The sheets covering him fall, showing how his abdomen is flat and normal, no longer bulging out unnaturally. They do a good job hiding the bandages that Sam knows are there.

For a moment, the three of them just stand in the doorway, regarding Cas. He looks back just as warily. Then Bobby clears his throat, making them all jump, and Dean — who’s in the lead, and whose expression Sam can’t read — moves farther into the room.

It’s Bobby who speaks first. “I sure am glad to see you alive,” he says to Castiel, giving a small, awkward cough. “Figured that it was for real last time.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says tonelessly. If Bobby’s words warm him at all, he doesn’t show it. In fact, their presence doesn’t seem to be causing him anything beyond fear. Sam can see it in his eyes, in the stiffness of his shoulders, and he wonders what exactly it is that’s making him feel like that. Not that there’s any lack of things that he has cause to be frightened of.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, deciding to try his hand at breaking the ice in the room, which, at the moment, is enough to cause the Titanic to sink if it were to strike it.

“I’m well. Or so they tell me. I don’t know what exactly their qualifying standards are for that.”

Sam almost lets himself smile, because that’s classic Castiel, that hint of sarcasm right there. But he doesn’t, because nothing right now is exactly worth being happy at. Not even the small things; not when they’re so dwarfed in the shadows of the large ones.

Instead he asks, “How do you feel? Anything bad in particular; anything you want us to talk to the doctors about?”

“No. I…my body is in pain,” he admits. “Around the region where I was shot, and, of course, where you had to cut. But that’s to be expected. There’s nothing that you, or the doctors, can do.”

“You haven’t asked them to up the dose on your pain meds?” Dean asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken, and Cas is looking at him with a more nervous expression than he had when talking to him or to Bobby.

“No. It… it hasn’t seem necessary.” Castiel shakes his head, clearly not wanting to pursue the subject. “It isn’t as intense as I think it is, of course. I’m just unused to it.”

“That’s crap,” Dean says flatly, all but glaring at Castiel. Two minutes in, and he and Cas are already going at it, whatever tenuous treaty that Dean was maintaining with him before broken , now that this is no longer a life-or-death situation. “That’s what the meds are for. Just take advantage of them, okay? I know that maybe you’re used to just zapping away whatever the hell--”

“Dean.” Bobby intervenes before Sam can, touching Dean lightly on the shoulder. “I think I’m gonna go and get some coffee, boy. Why don’t you show me where it is.”

It isn’t a question, and Dean goes with him without argument. Which means, for Dean, that he storms outside wordlessly.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Idjit. We’ll wait until he’s cooled down to come back, okay?”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Thanks, Bobby.”

He nods and hurries out after Dean, leaving Sam and Cas alone. A heavy silence descends upon them.

Sam tries to think of something to say, but there’s not much that he can find. “Um. You mind if I sit?” He nods to the chair set up next to Castiel.

“No,” he replies, not sounding like he cares about much of anything. “Of course not.”

Sam sits and tries to get comfortable, which isn’t an easy feat in the hard plastic. Finally, he just accepts the discomfort as an inevitable and stills his movements.

The silence isn’t so easy to accept. So, even though it’s not really his place to speak for Dean, after a few minutes he finally says to Castiel, “He’s worried about you. I know you probably don’t believe it because he sucks at showing it, but I promise that he does.” He doesn’t need to say Dean’s name. They both know that there’s only one person he could be talking about.

“Dean is under no obligation to care about me,” Castiel replies. Whether it’s with sadness or bitterness Sam can’t tell, not with the thick layer of apathy that covers it. “I don’t expect him to.”

“You should,” Sam counters gently. He’s trying his best to be careful, to walk on eggshells around Cas, because the fallen angel isn’t giving away any signs of what he’s thinking. “He’s being an asshole.”

“He’s being reasonable,” Castiel says simply. “I would have expected you to have followed his path.”

“It’s not unreasonable for me to forgive you. Dean is just… he has a hard time doing that, you have to understand. When someone close to him does something that he thinks is wrong, he doesn’t let it go very easily. But I promise that he still cares about you, and he’ll come around eventually. He’d have thrown you out from the start if he didn’t.”

Cas doesn’t believe him, but apparently, he’s had enough of the argument. Instead, he looks down at the sheets and says, “Sam. May I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course you can. Anything you need.” He leans close, trying to let Cas know that it’s okay, he’s attentive. That’s more thought than he would usually put into such a gesture, but dealing with Castiel is different than dealing with Dean. He doesn’t know how Cas will interpret things, and so he’s carefully analyzing every twitch of his thumb.

“That night. What happened afterwards?”

“After what?” Sam asks carefully. “I can — I will, if you want — tell you anything about it. I just don’t know when you want me to start.”

“A better thing to do would be for you to tell us what exactly happened.” Dean and Bobby are back, both holding Styrofoam cups. Bobby hands one to him, which he takes gratefully.

Dean looks out the window along the wall, not at Castiel as he continues, “What effect did the Colt have on you? What, exactly, did it do?”

Castiel sits up a little straighter, although he doesn’t look at Dean any more than Dean looks at him. But he answers the question immediately. “The Colt worked exactly as it was supposed to. It killed the Leviathans within me first.”

“Why did Sam have to slice you open?” Dean asks, and the words come out sounding harsh and cruel. Sam winces, although he knows it’s the truth. He doesn’t really harbor any guilt about what he did —he knows that it was to save Cas, and he had know what he was doing when he ordered Sam to get the knife — but when Dean puts it like that, well. It’s hard not to feel guilty for it.

“Because although they were dead, my control over them was…slipping. Essentially gone at that point,” he admits. “The Colt was destroying the remnants of my Grace as well. It just took longer. It was built with demons in mind not… not angels.”

Dean nods, looking impassive. “And? Why did you cut them out rather than letting them get out on their own?”

“Because the poison from them would have killed me if I had waited,” Cas all but snaps, “and for one foolish moment, I actually wanted to live. I assure you, I regret that decision as much as you do.”

There’s a pause, a harsh silence hanging in the room. Dean opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. Then he turns away and walks outside; to where, Sam doesn’t know. This time, Bobby doesn’t go with him.

Silence descends after Dean leaves, and Sam searches for something to say to Cas, something about how no, he shouldn’t regret living; he should never regret it. Something about how it’s better that he’s alive. Or maybe about how Dean really didn’t mean it.

But before he can find the right words to say anything, Castiel continues on with his narration of the events four nights ago. His voice stays the same, like he doesn’t recognize how fucked up his previous statement was. “I knew it was destroying my Grace. I could feel it, and it hurt worse than the gunshot wound or the lacerations. Worse, even, than the Leviathans inside of me did. But that’s neither here nor there,” he adds as an afterthought. “Sam, after you had cut my abdomen and freed the… things, the Colt completed its job of killing my Grace. I had presumed I would go with it. I suppose I got…. lucky,” he says, not sounding like he actually believes that.

“You were out,” Sam says quietly. “We thought you were dead.”

Cas looks sharply at him. “No. I… I mustn’t have been. God wouldn’t have brought me back another time.”

Sam shrugs, silent. He knows what he saw, and Castiel wasn’t breathing. He’d watched Dean feel Castiel’s wrist that night; knew that there hadn’t been a pulse, until suddenly there was.

“In any event,” Castiel finishes, “That’s what happened. I remember the ride here. Vaguely. That’s where the question I had intended to ask you lies.”

“Oh. right.” Sam glances at Bobby, who has been taking this in wordlessly. He raises an eyebrow and asks, “Could you go after Dean?”

“Of course.” Bobby stands up and heads out. “We should probably get going soon anyway.”

“Yeah.” He waits until Bobby is fully out of sight, and the turns to Cas and says, “Okay. What is it?”

“I remember the ride here,” Castiel repeats. He’s finally meeting Sam’s eyes, his own expression set unreadable in his tired face. “You stayed by me as Dean drove.”

Sam shifts, slightly discomforted. “I did what I had to do,” he says honestly. “I wouldn’t have let you bleed out, Cas.”

“Nevertheless, I appreciate it.” He dips his head and says more clearly, “Thank you for that, Sam. It wasn’t something that I deserved.”

“No problem. Really. Like I’ve told you before, I still think you’re one of us. And I protect my own.”

Castiel nods, and for a moment his eyes soften and he looks eternally grateful. “And I appreciate that, Sam.” He hesitates before apparently deciding to soldier on with whatever it is that he both does and doesn’t want to talk to Sam about. “That night, I was… not myself. As I’m sure you understand.”

Sam nods, and he continues, “There were some… things that I was saying in my desperation. Prayers in the Divine Language.”

“Enochian?” he asks, although he already knows the answer. For a moment he thinks he sees Lucifer standing in the corner, but when he subtly shifts his eyes to it, there’s no one there.

“Yes. The original, angelic form. The human one is slightly altered.” He pauses and then, finally, asks, “Sam, did you understand what I was saying? The Enochian?”

“No,” he replies automatically. “It’s not something I’m fluent in.”

Castiel nods, not looking surprised. He’s frowning, though, like he’s trying to convince himself of something. “I must have been mistaken, then. I thought…” he shakes his head. “It was foolish. I thought that you answered me, in Enochian. The traditional reply to the words that I was saying. I’m not surprised that I was hallucinating at that point.”

Sam pauses, but he doesn’t think that he has anything to lose. Not by talking to Cas. And, well, Cas probably knows what sort of things went on in Hell, in the Cage. After all, he was the one to reach out and pull out his body, which means that he had to have been down there.

He glances to the doors and sees that they’re still alone. “Cas,” he says carefully, “Lucifer. He spoke Enochian, right? And Michael.”

Cas looks surprised, but he nods. “Yes.”

Sam toys with his hands. He can understand now why Dean rarely speaks about his time in Hell. Even though he isn’t admitting any of the gory details, acknowledging the reality of what he went through is hard. And even just talking about his hallucinations sends him back there, to the fire and brimstone he spent a century with. “That night, I was…stressed. I mean, we all were. Naturally. And I was having some…hallucinations that night. Of Lucifer.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says quietly. “No, don’t say it’s all right,” he adds as Sam opens his mouth to reiterate his forgiveness. “It isn’t. I’m aware that I’m the sole reason that you’re having those visions, and if I could, I would change it. If there’s any possible way that I could start to atone for my actions, anything that I could ever do for you—let me know.”

Sam isn’t exactly sure what to say to that, how to deal with the intensity in Castiel’s eyes. He shifts in his chair and says, “All I need right now is for you to tell me if this is possible, or if I’m just, uh. Going crazy.”

Cas leans forward, and Sam knows that he’s got his full attention. “Look. That night, I saw Lucifer talk to you. In Enochian. And Dean heard something.” He pauses, and then asks in a rush, “Is it possible that I know Enochian, after listening to Lucifer speak it? Like, my hallucinations are some sort of subconscious expression of it?”

He doesn’t mention Lucifer’s comment, that he remembers more than he thinks. He thinks he remembers plenty, all sensations and flashes of wings and eyes, the scent of flesh burning in Michael’s heat, and lying near Lucifer until his body grew numb and he couldn’t feel his fingers or anything else—

“Sam,” he hears Castiel say, and he shakes his head, snapping out of the mental slideshow and instinctively pressing his nails into the crescent scar on his palm. From the bed, Castiel is looking at him with concern.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m fine. Seriously, I just got… lost for a moment. What do you think about the Enochian?”

Castiel doesn’t look entirely convinced about how okay he is, but he also doesn’t say anything about it. Sam gets the impression that he’s not too good with the whole “Are you okay?” thing yet, but he doesn’t mind. It makes things easier, since his words really were the truth. Sometimes he just gets overwhelmed. That doesn’t mean that he isn’t dealing.

“I do think it’s possible,” Castiel says. “The fact that you’re still able to function all but proves that there are memories from Hell that you keep buried deep. Having heard Enochian for so long, it doesn’t seem implausible that you would understand it.” He pauses. “You don’t have any recollection of speaking it, though?”

“Nope. I thought it was Lucifer—I mean, that it was all in my head, you know?” He shrugs. “I mean, it’s not the first time that I’ve done something and not been aware of it. It’s just, suddenly being able to speak Enochian is different from driving a car.”

Castiel cocks his head, and Sam realizes that no, he wouldn’t know about that night in the abandoned warehouse, when he first started using pain to anchor him to the real world. He opens his mouth, about to explain, when Bobby walks in. He’s followed by a Dean who refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, and just stares staunchly out the window on the wall parallel to Castiel’s bed.

“I think it’s time to head out,” announces Bobby. “Sam? That sound good to you?”

“Yeah.” He stands up, stretching, careful not to bump into any of the equipment that monitors Cas. “We’ll probably be by again tomorrow, okay? Or, I mean, I will. To fill you in on what’s been going on lately.”

“I’d like that.” Castiel nods at him, and for the first time that day, he doesn’t look entirely swallowed up by dread over what he’s been through. “Thank you, Sam.”

“No problem. And have a good night, Cas.”

He steps out of the way, letting Bobby pass by him, to come closer to Castiel. He awkwardly pats his shoulder. “Get well soon. You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“I suspect I do. I appreciate you coming, Bobby. I know that you had no obligation to.”

Bobby removes his hand and instead uses it to wring his hat between his fists. “Hell, boy, I know I didn’t. I came because I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“And I appreciate that,” Castiel repeats, quietly and intensely.

“Well, so you do,” Bobby answers. “See you soon.”

When that’s done, he steps back, and they both glance at Dean. He hasn’t said a word since storming out, and Sam isn’t sure that he’s even glanced at Cas all the time that he’s been in here.

Now, he tears his gaze away from the window and meets Sam’s eyes. He tilts his chin to the door. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”

In the corner of his eye, Sam sees Castiel tense up. He hesitates, glancing at Bobby, who shrugs and takes a step towards the door. Sam makes a snap decision and trusts his brother not to screw this up. “Bye, Cas.”

“Good-bye, Sam.” Castiel’s eyes never leave Dean. His trepidation is clear in his voice, and Sam hopes that he isn’t making a mistake. Dean is going to have to deal with Castiel eventually, and he figures that waiting won’t help scab over the wounds. He just hopes that this won’t make Cas worse, not when he’s already looking as crappy as the things they serve in the cafeteria.

Sam stops well within earshot of the room, once he and Bobby are out in the hall. Bobby rolls his eyes, but he slows and waits as well. Sam knows him well enough to know that he wants to hear what’s about to go down in the small hospital room as much as he does.

It’s silent at first. The tension practically seeps out into the hallway, and Sam resists the urge to go in and pull Dean out, and tell him to just settle things. If only things could just be that simple.

Finally, Dean clears his throat. Sam pictures Castiel tensing at the sound, all his attention focused on Dean. Who, knowing him, probably still isn’t looking at him right now.

“Cas.” The words are spoken in a voice that’s almost too low for Sam to hear. “Look.”

“You brought me here,” Castiel says, low and quick. “You freed me from the Leviathan, and you managed to keep me alive. I didn’t think that such a thing would be possible. Thank you. I…I really am grateful. For your intentions, if nothing else,” he adds bitterly.

Dean lets out a humorless laugh that. “Cas, I wouldn’t have let you die. No. I…look, I’m not going to go around and act like this is easy, because it isn’t, okay? I can’t just pretend that you didn’t work with Crowley, or that you didn’t spend almost a year lying to my face—that when I tried to trust you, you proved me wrong. And it’ll be a frigging freezing day in Hell before I can forget what you did to Sam. I don’t care if he’s forgiven you. I haven’t.”

“I haven’t forgiven myself, either,” Castiel responds. The loathing in his voice is evident, and it makes Sam cringe and wonder why the hell he’s the only one who is willing to work past the destruction of the wall in his head. Especially seeing as he was the one who got majorly screwed over by it in the first place. “If that makes any difference.”

“Not really,” Dean admits. “But, Cas. Look. I haven’t forgotten that… that once you were our ally. Friend. Whatever you want to say. And maybe that didn’t matter when you were high on souls and going on killing sprees, but now…I’m not going to knock you down when you’re already like… you know.”

“Human.”

“Yeah. I’m pissed at you, I mean. I can’t say that I’m not. But, well…” his voice goes softer. “I. It’s good that you’re not dead, okay? If I had wanted that, I would’ve just shot you in the head. You think I would have bothered to save you if I just wanted you dead?”

“Knowing you, you’d want to have the option of killing me on your own,” Castiel says, a hint of dry humor entering his voice for the first time. Sam gets the impression that his statement was said in all sincerity, though.

Dean laughs. “Fair enough. But Cas, I don’t. I…I’m not happy with you. Definitely not happy. And that’s not something that’s going to change anytime soon. But me and Sam, we’re not going to just leave you here. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but trust me when I say we’re not just going to shoot you as soon as you’re out of here.”

“I do trust you,” Castiel replies. He’s serious again. “And Dean…thank you. I know that helping those who have hurt you—Sam—goes against your nature. And I do appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Dean says quietly. “Well. I…I’m glad to have you back.”

There’s the sound of shuffling, of movement, and Sam and Bobby automatically start heading down the hall, trying to make their eavesdropping a hint less conspicuous. Dean comes out a moment later. By the time he reaches them, his face is blank, any emotions on lockdown.

“How’d that go?” Sam asks, keeping his voice light.

Dean shrugs. “I dunno. Good, I guess.”

“Good,” Sam agrees, and for the first time since Cas appeared in their motel room, he feels like the world around them isn’t falling out of control any more than it usually is. Maybe things are going to turn out okay after all—not today, of course, or tomorrow, or any time soon. But maybe there’s hope for that unknown destination down the road, hope that Dean will forgive Cas, and things won’t be as high-stakes, world-ending as they usually are. Hopes that they can finally settle into the sort of peace that none of them have every really know.

Beside him, Lucifer falls into step and murmurs, “That’s so beautifully naïve of you, I could almost cry. You really think that Cas is okay after all of this? That he’s not going to be as fucked up as you or Dean? Or that Dean is ever going to be able to look at him without thinking of you having one of your little breaks from reality? And do you really think that you three, of all people, have a shot of happiness? I thought you knew better than that, Sam.”

He laughs, and Sam digs his fingers into his palm, and forces himself to focus on the long white hallway ahead.


End file.
